


kind of a softie

by chaospitals (hardscrabble)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 NHL Season, Bad Pick-Up Lines, M/M, Washington Capitals, breakdown day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18624250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/pseuds/chaospitals
Summary: "I can't believe you cried about the Oshie chant."





	kind of a softie

Nobody bothered to watch interviews, especially not right when they were aired, or released, or whatever the right verb is for an increasingly post-television world. TJ surprised himself for a moment, thinking that, being the person thinking that, but hell, a guy had to say occupied _somehow_. Particularly when the docs and coaching staff wouldn’t let him anywhere near physical conditioning for seven eternal fucking weeks after the first-round elimination, and he wound up with some pretty weird light reading. In comparative media studies. Weird, but interesting.

Regardless, the prospect of a long-ass summer must have done something to the boys’ brains, just like it did to his, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when Whip started chirping him.

_Bro you CRIED when they chanted for you????_

It was one of a thousand-odd comments on a nothing Instagram update about the brand, nearly two months after breakdown day. It had about forty likes and a dozen replies featuring cry-laughing emojis and the word “savage.” As Tom’s elder, he hypothetically knew better than to react, but he wasn’t going to let the asshole spread that kind of libel.

 _I SAID ALMOST,_ he replied, and added three angry emojis, and then texted the fucker to make sure they were still on for beers later.

***

“I can’t believe you fucking cried about the Oshie yell,” says Tom, three beers in. The bar’s loud as hell, considering the Nats game, and Tom is nearly shouting. He looks good, a few weeks of grown-in beard after the dramatic elimination close-shave. He looked good clean-shaven, too. Fine, he looks good most ways. He looks _really_ good three beers deep with a flush going, eyes locked on the game and half-smirking.

“Almost,” TJ says. “I said fucking _almost_.”

“Oh, for sure.” An eyeroll in three words. Tom downs half his fourth beer at once and yeah, okay, TJ watches how his throat moves, the hollow at the base of his neck framed by the vee of his T-shirt collar, how he lifts one hand and swipes the back of it across his mouth after.

 _Make_ you _cry yelling my name_ , he thinks, lifting his own beer, and realizes at the same time that Tom’s hand stops moving that he said it out loud.

And, okay, TJ is definitely three deep as well. He glances over and drinks, and Tom is _not_ watching baseball, because he’s watching TJ, with that face like he’s tracking a complicated question with a bunch of parts. Finally, he says, “What?” His voice cracks absurdly. “Dude.”

 _Fuck it_ , TJ thinks, and replies over his beer bottle, “I know you heard me, bro.” And because he _might as fucking well_ , he licks up the neck of the bottle, condensation cold on his tongue, and takes a sip, and watches Tom watch his mouth. The color in his face deepens.

“Just saying,” says TJ. “Bet I could.”

“Bet you—” Tom cuts himself off, and licks his own top lip. “Is that— Really?” he says instead, and his eyebrows pinch in the middle.

TJ finds himself grinning as he leans back in his chair. “What, you wanna find out?”

“Are you—” He blinks, lips parted. “You’re seriously—”

“Up to you, Willy, babe.” TJ lets his eyes fall half-closed, feels his own grin go even more lopsided. “Totally up to you.”

Tom’s never heard a bet he hasn’t taken as a challenge, though.

There won’t be any _almost_ about it.

**Author's Note:**

> say hi on [tumblr](http://chaospitals.tumblr.com/) if you want!


End file.
